


Mysteries and Mayhem

by cynicalwerewolf



Category: Hart of Dixie, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalwerewolf/pseuds/cynicalwerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had seemed like a simple salt and burn job in a small Alabama town called Bluebell. But since when were the Winchesters' lives that easy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carry On My Wayward Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookdal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookdal/gifts).



> Dedication and many thanks to my beta, bookdal, who I blame completely for this monster. Diverges from canon after 7.04 for Supernatural and 1.08 for Hart of Dixie.

The weekend after Homecoming but before Halloween was always the best one for parties. At least, it was among the ‘teenage delinquent set’. Not all of the participants were members of that population; there were always a few younger members of the better families slumming.

Magnolia Breeland belonged to that second set, although unlike most she was very careful not to drink anything she hadn’t brought with her. One bout of alcohol poisoning had been enough, especially when she had been taken unconscious by _Rose and Frederick Dean_ (who still read _comic books_ of all things) to _Zoe Hart_ of all people and then had to have _Lemon_ come fetch her…

Neither Daddy nor Lemon knew she was here. She was supposed to be sleeping over at Laney Press’s house. But she would be staying over there, Laney was here, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them she rationalized. And here, she could be herself, not Magnolia Breeland daughter of THE Brick Breeland of THE Breelands. She sipped her drink and sat down on the bench, cautiously in case it collapsed. She hoped that it wouldn’t ruin her dress. Daddy might not notice, but Lemon would and there would be hell to pay. The party might be worth it, but the dress wasn’t.

Laney made her way to Magnolia from the circle of Truth or Dare players, giggling the whole time. “Magnolia!” she said as she reached the bench, accent thick with alcohol. “Patrick just got the _best_ idea, but we’re going to need your help, so please, be a darling and help us.”

“What is it?” Magnolia asked, feeling excitement mixed with apprehension. She considered herself beyond Truth or Dare, but she did try and listen to the truths. And an exciting dare was always worth going along with.

“We’re a’goin’ to go to the Old Cemetery, and stay until midnight, tellin’ ghost stories. And they say that your family crypt there is haunted! So we want to stay in it.” At that last part, Laney’s voice dropped to a loud whisper.

Magnolia felt herself frown. This might be getting close to her limit. She would never hear the end of it if they were caught. And there _was_ something…off in the family crypt.

“C’mon, Magnolia, _please_ be a dear. Your Daddy and Lemon never need to know…or are you chicken?”

That decided her. Magnolia stood, and said, “I’m not chicken.” She plucked the keys from Laney’s hand, saying, “But I’m driving. Anyone else’d probably drive off the road.”

Laney giggled. “This’ll be _so_ much FUN!”

* * *

“I cannot believe your behavior, Magnolia Constance Roxanna Breeland! Lying to Daddy and me, sneaking off to parties on the bad side of town, breaking into the family crypt, getting brought home by Officer Bill! And after you just got done with being grounded!” Lemon couldn’t remember ever being so furious with her little sister.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Magnolia screamed back. Before Lemon could do more than gasp her sister’s name, Magnolia continued, “Yeah, sister, I said FUCK! I heard some of the shit you got into in high school, so why are you bitching about my shit?”

“The difference,” Lemon said, forcing her tone to be calm, rather than screaming at her little sister, “Is that what I did was harmless, not sacrilegious, and _I_ never forgot my responsibilities. Not just to this family, but to the town. Bluebell looks to the Breelands, and what we do-“

“Then Bluebell can kiss my ass,” Magnolia said, giving Lemon a raspberry to increase the insult before whirling about to go upstairs.

“Magnolia! We aren’t finished here. Girl, you get back here right now!” Lemon lost her battle with trying not to yell.

Before Magnolia could say anything to add fuel to the flames, the doorbell rang. Magnolia stopped on the stairs and Lemon schooled her expression and voice to not show any of the anger she was feeling. Opening the door, she was startled to see Sheriff Bill standing on their doorstep.

“Sheriff Bill! This is a surprise, to see you twice in one night. I hope…” Lemon’s voice trailed off as she saw his expression. There was never good news associated with that expression…She whispered, “Daddy?”

The sheriff bowed his head, “I’m sorry Lemon, Magnolia, but your father and George Tucker were attacked by an unknown party. Dr. Hart is doing what she can to keep them alive until the ambulance comes, but she’s not certain she’ll be able to.”

Lemon couldn’t even think. This was worse than when Mother died. That had been sudden, no chance for hope to torture her. She kept staring until she heard Magnolia’s choking sobs, then turned as if in a dream and went to her sister, only making it to the bottom of the stairs before Magnolia threw herself into Lemon’s arms.

For a brief eternity they stood there just holding each other, all anger forgotten. Then Sheriff Bill cleared his throat, and said, “You girls shouldn’t be alone tonight. Mayor Hayes has asked me to bring you to the plantation, at least for tonight. And I have strict instructions from Dr. Hart to not let either of you near the clinic. She says that she’s going to need all her attention on her patients and that no one should see their parent or fiancée in the state that they’re in, and having seen them with my own eyes, I agree with her.”

Knowing Zoe Hart’s usual tact, Lemon knew the actual words were probably along the lines of ‘I don’t need useless people hovering and making me waste time trying to keep them happy and my patients alive’, but the fact that neither Zoe Hart nor Sheriff Bill wanted Brick’s daughters at least in the waiting room gave a doctor’s daughter more than enough information about how serious the wounds were.

Covering her eyes to try and stop her tears, Lemon told Sheriff Bill, “Give us some time to fetch clothes.”

“Take as much as you need,” Sheriff Bill called as she and Magnolia went upstairs to their rooms. It was said with a kindness that broke Lemon’s heart.

* * *

An hour later, Lemon and Magnolia were sitting on Lavon’s couch. Fear had passed and grief was still waiting in the wings, all they felt was numbness. Lavon had obviously dressed in haste after he heard the news and was waiting with them. He was currently seated on a chair next to Lemon’s side of the couch. He held her hand, which usually would have brought Lemon out of her depression with either confused anger or desire, now merely brought subdued thankfulness.

To try and avoid hope, she pondered some of what Sheriff Bill had said as he drove them over. He mentioned going back to the crime scene, and that it had been odd. The wounds had apparently been unusual, more in the line of a mechanical accident, rather than human attack. But that made no sense…

The back door broke the silence with an ungodly clatter. Three heads turned to see Zoe Hart come in. Her hair was damp and she appeared to be wearing her version of casual clothes. She froze under the sudden scrutiny, and crept forward, almost endearingly nervous. Lemon suppressed a frown, wondering where that thought had come from.

Dr. Hart reached the boundary of the living room, addressing Lemon and Magnolia quietly, “I just wanted to let you know that both George and your father made it to the hospital. They aren’t out of danger, but their chances are much better than they were at the beginning of the night.”

Lemon could feel herself give in to treacherous hope. She could feel Magnolia relax beside her and begin sobbing again. Zoe appeared even more befuddled by that. The silence stretched, and Lemon broke it by saying the words that she had never expected or wanted to say to her, “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Her voice broke on that last word.

Not appearing any more comfortable than Lemon, Dr. Hart turned to Lavon and said, “I need to go up to Mobile tomorrow to check up on them.”

Lavon said, “I’ll drive you.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Hart turned back to Lemon. And then Zoe spoke, although it sounded as if the words were being pulled from her, “You and Magnolia are welcome to accompany us. You and Magnolia probably won’t be allowed to visit, but you’ll probably be able to at least look through the window and see Brick.”

“Thank you,” Magnolia whispered. Lemon could only nod her thanks as well.

Zoe stood in the boundary area, shifting from foot to foot, for a short time before finally saying, “If we’re done, I should be going to bed-“

“Wait,” burst from Lemon’s mouth. Zoe had begun to turn, but turned back to look nervously back at her, “Do you know what was odd about the-the crime scene?”

Bowing her head and closing her eyes briefly, Dr. Hart lifted her head to meet Lemon’s eyes, “Well, it could be what looked like an accident with machinery in a room that held nothing that could cause wounds like that. Or it took place in a locked room, with no sign of forced entry. And that the room was locked from the _inside_. Or-“ Zoe’s voice had been getting harder throughout the list. She put her hand over her eyes, very hard. Looking back up, there was a sign of the softer, uncertain woman that had first entered the room, “Sorry. It’s been a very long night.”

Lemon had paled, and she wanted to let out her own bitchy side, but…she wasn’t really angry at Zoe right now. While she was calming herself, Lavon said, “You should be getting to bed, Zoe. We all should. You’ll feel better with a little sleep.” He stood and went over to Dr. Hart, pulling her into a swift hug. She leaned into it briefly, and Lemon felt a flash of jealousy.

There was a pause before Dr. Hart muttered, “Good night,” and left very quickly. 

There was a moment where no one knew what to say, before Lavon said, “Good night, Lemon, Magnolia.”

Lemon muttered her own good night. Magnolia just stood and went to her room. With a brief glance at Lavon and past him to the back door, Lemon followed her.

* * *

“I fucking can’t believe this,” Dean growled. “I just tuned her up, and she breaks down in East Bumfuck, Alabama.” He looked out at the sparkling clean town with disfavor. The Impala still ran, if not well, but he knew that they wouldn’t make it to Mobile. They would need to hole up here and make repairs. “Goddamn small towns. Make me nervous.”

Sam sighed and said, “Sitting here swearing about it isn’t going to make it better. And-” he paused, looked distracted for a moment too long, having to visibly tear his attention away from the rearview mirror and back to his brother, “If we have to stay here, I have a feeling that there’s our kind of problem here. Not Leviathans.”

“Sam, are you- have-” Dean took a breath, and managed to say, “Are you having visions again? I thought that went out a long time ago with Yellow Eyes.”

“It did, but I still have some…abilities not connected to the demon’s blood, and they’re telling me that there’s business of our type going on here.”

Dean coaxed the Impala into motion and said, “Well, I saw a motel back a little. I’ll fix the car while you investigate. Ah-“

“Yes, I’m still having hallucinations, too,” Sam sighed. “But I can tell the difference between them and reality. I’m not talking to Lucifer anymore, am I?”

“Not usually, but you do space out several times a day…” Dean’s voice trailed off before he admitted, “I’ve been keeping track.”

“In a diary. Oh, excuse me, _journal_ ,” Sam grinned as he teased Dean, seeming normal for the first time in far too long, “At least you’re starting to get the hang of research.”

Dean muttered imprecations under his breath, but felt better about his life and relationship with Sam than in years. Since after he’d gotten back from Hell; perhaps even before he’d gone to Hell.

He felt a strong temptation to lean over and kiss Sam. And yet…they hadn’t done anything sexual since he discovered that Sam had been drinking demon’s blood; even before that, there had been something missing. 

They had almost reached the hotel when the police scanner crackled into life. Both their heads swiveled to look at it before Dean lifted his eyes back to the road. Sam reached back and turned the volume up. They heard, “All cars to the Mausser household, 14-19-30. Repeat, all cars to the Mausser household, 14-19-30.”

Sam unbuckled his seatbelt as Dean slowed the Impala to a halt. As he got out, Sam said, “I’ll call when I have some idea what we’re dealing with. It might take a while.”

Nodding, Dean said, “If I manage to get done fixing the Impala, I’ll call you to say what room we’re in.” He paused before adding, “Be safe.”

“You too,” Sam replied. He walked back towards the center of town just as a police car went tearing by. Dean wondered where the hell that car had been, but was happy enough that Sam would know where to go.

Not that it wouldn’t be blindingly obvious when he got there. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he made his way to the hotel, hoping that his baby wouldn’t break down again and that his brother wouldn’t get into trouble without him there to protect him.

* * *

When he reached the residential center of the town (or at least the residential center of the upper class), it was quite obvious where the problem was. There were three patrol cars sitting by a large house with yellow siding and white trim near the end of a cul-de-sac. Certainly all the cars a town this size would have. Making his movement unobtrusive, he cursed his size. A six-five, shabby stranger was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Thankfully, he and Dean weren’t wanted any more.

Another thing he considered reason to be thankful was that Dean had agreed to let _him_ run a few credit card scams. Dean’s pattern was well known, while Sam hadn’t run any even when they were hunting with Dad (or Ruby…or Samuel) and so didn’t have an established pattern. Yet. But it was worth giving the authorities a potential pattern later if it kept the Leviathans off their trail now.

Walking down the street, he saw a covered body being taken out of the house and a tearful man (husband, father, brother? He didn’t even know if the victim was male or female) escorted down the steps. Hoping that the police would be too focused on the man to notice him, he made his way closer to the house, taking note of what the police were doing and where they were going as he did.

Sam slowed slightly before reaching the point where he couldn’t avoid being noticed. Assessing the activity around the yellow house, he turned so he was walking along the side of the house four doors down from it, slipped around behind the houses, and made his way to the target house. Someone had been helpful enough to leave several rear windows open and the police were all out front. He slipped inside.

The interior was stereotypical Southern upper class, in a style that didn’t look like it had been updated since the `20s. The appliances ranged from new to the `50s, but they all were relatively traditional. It was so clean it practically sparkled and almost unbearably neat.

It was also absolutely foreign to Sam. He might have once longed for a place like this, but after Hunt, Apocalypse, and Cage, any ability to live a normal life had been scoured from him. He was a hunter, that’s all he was and all he ever would be.

“World without end, amen. Nice digs,” Lucifer said as the hallucination appeared next to Sam. “Of course, the study is more my scene, but we can’t always get what we want.” He smiled, “Reminds me of the good times we had. Well, that I had. You never seemed to enjoy them.”

Sam didn’t bother responding to the figment of his subconscious, although he did start searching for the study. Even if Lucifer didn’t exist here, his paranormal senses might use the hallucination to give him direct information. 

He knew he was close to the study when he began smelling blood. The smell intensified as he closed in on a door. Blood had seeped from the room into the rug and onto the hardwood floor. Opening the door and looking in, he started.

As a hunter, he had seen bloody scenes, but this was one of the bloodiest short of the sight of himself in the Cage. There had probably been no blood left in the victim’s body. It could have been the work of any number of creatures, or even a human madman. Except for-he frowned, then shrugged. At least this was territory he was familiar with.

* * *

‘We’ve got one pissed off ghost here,’ Sam said when Dean answered his phone.

“Yeah? What was your first clue, the ectoplasm or the blood?” Dean replied. The townspeople hadn’t been at all quiet about what had happened to Dee-Lee Ann Mausser, or the fact that two other pillars of the community, Brick Breeland (and who the hell named their kid Brick?) and George Tucker had been found in similar circumstances. Brick and George were still alive, but there had been ectoplasm at that scene, too. Or at least there had been talk about a black substance that was confusing the big-city chemists that Dean assumed was ectoplasm.

‘Both,’ Sam replied drily. ‘And the fact that Dee-Lee Ann looked like she’d been run over with a harvester before being exsanguinated.’

“And I don’t suppose you or the police found a harvester on the scene?” Dean asked. He would much rather this be human weirdness. That was someone else’s business, not theirs.

‘I don’t think even a small town police force could miss a harvester covered with blood and…other stuff in the house or surrounding area,’ Sam replied. ‘I’m going to head to the library to see if I can find anything similar in the town records.’

“You do that,” Dean replied, only listening with half an ear. The trio of gossiping women had come into his line of sight again, and he was certain he’d be able to hear what they said if he got close enough. He didn’t notice if Sam hung up as he casually eased his way down the sidewalk, pretending to take in whatever sights this town claimed it had while also pretending to be talking on his phone.

One of the white women said, “Did you hear what young Magnolia was doing last night, while her daddy and future brother-in-law were getting kilt?”

“No, what?” the other white woman asked eagerly.

“She was breaking into the Old Breeland Family Mausoleum, with That Group,” Dean could hear the capitals. “I had it from Therese, who had it from Mrs. Mason, who had it from Sheriff Bill himself.” She shook her head, “There’s a wild streak in that girl, to be sure.”

“Oh, no more than there was in Lemon at that age,” the black woman said. “I remember some of what young Lemon did when she was fifteen, and Lord, but she was a little hellion.”

“Lemon never disturbed the rest of the dead, though,” the second white woman said, shaking her head. “If Brick don’t take her in hand when he’s back, she’ll come to a bad end.”

Dean didn’t bother listening to the rest. As soon as Sam answered his cell, he said, “Hey, Sam? Check up on the people buried in the old Breeland family mausoleum. I’ve been listening to the gossip, and that seems to be a pretty good place to start.”


	2. Back Door

“Okay,” Sam said to Dean in their hotel room, “I’m pretty certain our ghost is Hazel Breeland. Back in the 20s, the Breelands were the stereotypical Southern plantation family, but their fortunes were beginning to wane. Hazel was a young belle, and if you tell that awful joke about belles and balls I know you’re about to, I will hit you.”

Dean gave him a wounded look. Sam considered telling him he’d been speaking as much to Lucifer as to him, but thought the better of it. Shaking his head and ignoring Lucifer’s taunts he continued, “Hazel was engaged to be married to another of the large landowners, but she fell in love with one of the family servants. A young black woman named Thea.”

Shadows crept into Dean’s eyes. Sam wondered if he was thinking of another black woman, older now but young when they had met. “Not a good time and place for that type of relationship.”

“No,” Sam sighed, “They were caught together. Thea was dismissed from her post and her family thrown out of town. She was found in a field the next day, beaten to death. It was unclear who did it, but no one tried to find her killer. The Breelands tried to keep the news from Hazel, but she found out.”

Lucifer laughed scornfully, “This is the race you were so desperate to save, Sammy-boy. So caught up on trivialities they damned two people to ‘save’ one of them.”

Speaking over the hallucination, Sam continued, “It was early summer when Hazel found out, and she went into a berserk rage. She attacked her parents and her fiancée before she was knocked out. They kept her locked up for a month in the family home, until she seemed to calm down. The first week of September, the week before her wedding was scheduled; she put on her wedding dress, walked out into the fields, and threw herself under a harvester.”

“Damn,” Dean whispered. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Sam was almost tempted to gather his brother into an embrace. One that would possibly lead to more…but Sam had pretty thoroughly burned that bridge. Coming back to himself with a visible shake, Dean said, “Well, seems like a simple enough salt and burn.”

“Yeah,” Sam acknowledged. “I got a map of the cemetery, and the Breeland crypt is well marked. We just need the salt, since we used the last up…”

Neither of them wanted to remember what they had used the salt up doing. Sam opened his mouth to ask Dean (now that there was some distance from the whole Osiris thing) who the third witness would have been, then stopped himself. Now wasn’t the time.

He wasn’t certain when the time would be, but he knew that it wasn’t now.

Dean visibly relaxed, and Lucifer’s, “Chickening out again, boy?” only cemented the knowledge that his assessment was correct. He’d pressed enough at the time, and pressing more would only make Dean defensive and more determined to not tell Sam.

They’d have time. Sam wasn’t about to let some supernatural primordial sharks kill them after all the forces Hell could muster hadn’t managed the job. The Leviathans were probably smarter than they seemed, but then, the primordial slime was probably been smarter than the Leviathans seemed.

Sam forcibly reminded himself not to be cocky. They’d gotten their asses handed to them on enough ‘easy’ jobs that it wasn’t very difficult to remember.

* * *

While the drive back to Bluebell was just as tense and uncomfortable as the drive to Mobile had been, it was a far more personal discomfort. Crisis bonding only went so far.

Lavon wasn’t particularly fond of Brick, the doctor reminded him of far too many other football stars, men who took more than their share of credit and forgot the human factors; not just with their teams, but with their fans. Harley Wilkes had been the human factor in the practice, for all Brick’s ‘good ole boy’ façade.

He wasn’t certain how well the practice would survive with two arrogant, unbending doctors; Zoe was learning, becoming less of a hardliner. Right now, her largest challenge would be convincing people to give her a chance to make up for her early mistakes. Hopefully Brick would, too…in every sense.

Zoe was fidgeting in the back seat, while Magnolia and Lemon were paying far more attention to the scenery than the view deserved.

Abruptly, Lemon spun back to face Zoe, hair flipping in front of her face in the way Lavon found especially appealing, but that Lemon never allowed anymore. She demanded, “Why did you crash the mayoral float? I know it was deliberate, but did you hate our town that badly?”

“It was never about the town,” Zoe said. “Contrary to popular belief, I’ve been working damn hard to fit into Bluebell. At that point, I didn’t have enough emotional investment in _anything_ in Bluebell to hate it. Well, aside from it not being New York, but I was getting over that. Although you and Brick were doing your best to change that, even then,” she added after a brief pause.

“Then _why_?” Lemon asked. Give the girl credit, she seemed genuinely thoughtful. This was the Lemon Lavon loved best, the girl- no, woman- who could be a positive social force, and not the royal bitch she so often was these days.

“I can’t tell you that,” Zoe said, “It has to do with doctor-patient privacy, and I also promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone about the problem this particular patient presented with, despite my personal opinion that they would benefit from others in town knowing.”

Lavon frowned. He hadn’t known the exact reason, but had trusted Zoe enough to believe there was a reason. Especially when she had apologized to him before-hand.

They were near town, which was very good, because the sun had set about half an hour ago. No one who lived in Bluebell was comfortable leaving town the on the nights of the full moon, especially those beginning with the first within a month of Halloween, and ending after the first full moon around the first of May. 

As Lavon entered the city limits, an old black Impala pulled out of Bluebell’s only motel and drove out of town. He made a note to have Sheriff Bill look into that. People who drove cars like that and yet stayed in crappy motels could be trouble.

* * *

There was a shiny new padlock on the outer door to the old Breeland family crypt. Dean rolled his eyes at its presence. “Like that’s going to keep people out,” he said, scornfully.

Sam set down the rock salt and gasoline can before he leaned over to take a look. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, “Almost doesn’t need the chisel. We could probably take apart the chain with our bare hands, it’s so cheap.”

“What’s the point of even having the thing if you’re not going to stop any more than casual visitors,” Dean muttered.

“Not everyone assumes that there’s going to be serious attempts to break into a crypt. They probably just put the padlock on because there was a break-in recently.” Even as he spoke, Sam had opened the toolbox and selected a hammer and a chisel. In two seconds, the chain fell to the ground with a jingle and Dean heaved open the worked iron lattice.

They had just gotten inside the crypt when Sam cried out, sagging against the wall and falling to his knees. Dean slid to his side, asking, “What’s the matter, Sam? What’s wrong? Sammy?”

“Not…Sammy,” Sam whispered. “Something’s coming…something really bad. Lucifer says he’ll be seeing me soon.” Sam looked up, meeting Dean’s eyes. His pupils were so dilated Dean couldn’t see the hazel.

It was then that Dean realized that the ringing sound he had assumed was from the chain falling hadn’t gone away. In fact, it was getting louder. “Sam? Do you hear bells?”

“Only in my head,” Sam muttered. At Dean’s sharp look, he said, “No, Dean. I don’t hear bells.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Dean muttered, heaving his brother up on his feet. Sam tried to help the process as much as possible, but it almost seemed as though he’d grown four extra legs, and was having a hard time placing all the new feet. But he got his legs sorted out and they headed out the door.

As soon as they left the mausoleum, they both heard the sounding of a wild, terrible horn.


	3. Lightning's Hand

Zoe entered Lavon’s house first, noticing Wade curled up on the sofa as she did so. Obviously he didn’t want to be alone in his house. Even though she couldn’t blame him (especially because even she could feel something wrong tonight) she wondered what it was about Bluebell that made the townsfolk so nervous tonight. She recognized a similar fear in Lemon, Magnolia, and even Lavon.

Lavon came in next, and he sighed when he saw Wade. “Dreaming again?” he asked, as though this was a normal occurrence. Well, maybe it was.

Wade gave a slight grunt, before saying, “Yeah. The Cousins visited my dreams so often last night I’d be tempted to charge them rent if I weren’t scairt shitless. Least this time…” Then he saw Zoe, and he abruptly changed the subject, “So how’s Brick and George?”

Frowning, Zoe tried to figure out what could be bothering Wade so much. Perhaps paranoid schizophrenia? That would explain his fear of his cousins, but…

She could swear she heard an old fashioned hunting horn being sounded in the distance. For some reason, she shivered.

* * *

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean growled, “Don’t say it. I’m not leaving you, and you need to save your breath for running.”

He doubted Sam would obey that command for long. As Sam tripped over a tree root, Dean realized that the bells were getting closer. Between the horns, the bells, and the sound of unnatural animals, Dean was having a hard time concentrating on anything besides fear.

* * *

In her small house, Shula Whitaker made certain Prince was inside. She loved him dearly, and she’d lost Prince Purrfection the Second (and nearly her own life) on a full moon much like this one.

When the haints rode on their mad horses, it was best to lock your doors, put salt and brick dust on all the thresholds, make certain you had at least a frying pan near, and pray to the Good Lord that the town’d be spared grief.

Prince’s sister, Diana, yowled. Disregarding her bottle-brush tail, arched back, and raised hackles, Shula picked the dainty queen up. They both needed the reassurance that only physical contact would bring.

Shula’d brought her rocking chair in. Seating herself carefully, she held Diana close while Prince jumped up on her lap as soon as Shula was settled. She whispered, “It’ll be all right, my babies. It’ll all be fine.”

And prayed that she wouldn’t be proven a liar as she heard the cries of the weird hunting hounds, remembering the sight of the unnatural creatures.

* * *

_Why am I having such a hard time running?_ Sam wondered. This felt nothing like the hallucinations that he was becoming far too familiar with. This felt almost like the aftermath of a vision.

Although the hallucinations weren’t helping. Half the time, he was in the Cage with Lucifer (and occasionally Michael, although the archangel never came through clearly). Even when he wasn’t in the Cage, Lucifer was behind him, before him, beside him. 

It would be irritating if it weren’t so terrifying.

Even stranger, he felt a connection to whatever was chasing them. Not an emotional one, but as though they were linked. As Dean towed him along, Sam tried to determine what he felt.

Right up to the point where he nearly took Dean out when he tripped over…something. Figuring out his connection to what was chasing them could wait until Dean wasn’t in danger.

* * *

Throughout the town, people made their preparations for this full moon night. While many of them didn’t quite believe in the daylight, memories of nights filled with uncanny cries and eerie horn calls always seemed sharper when those nights came around again. Not even the most avid hunter willing to disregard state regulations were also willing to chance becoming prey themselves.

Except for the pair of hunters who hadn’t realized the danger until it found them.

* * *

Scowling, Dean pulled a barely resisting Sam (which was so very wrong) back towards the Impala. Before they could get more than a few steps towards the car, Sam gave a pain filled gasp as Dean was forced backwards by a wave of primal _fear_. It was Dean’s turn to stumble.

Before he forced himself forward again, Sam flung one arm forward. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck shivered. After steeling himself, Dean threw himself towards the barrier, Sam trailing behind him. He crashed through, the barrier wasn’t there anymore, but he _knew_ that whatever was chasing them was not pleased.

They ran through endless trees, Sam alternately strong and declining. Dean wished that he had dared park the Impala closer to the cemetery. His brother didn’t need this on top of everything else.

Despite everything, Dean thought they were actually going to make it to safety. They were on the gravel path leading to the back road the cemetery was on, near where they’d left the Impala when a chilling, silvery laugh seemed to come from the air around them.

“What precious pets they are,” the cold voice almost cooed, “Thinking they had a chance to escape.”

The Impala was in a clearing that Dean was certain hadn’t been there when they’d left. In between them and the car was a host of shining riders. He heard other riders closing in to the sides and behind them. Beside him, Sam shivered, but still managed to draw himself to his full height.

The rider in the lead was female. Her long, white-blonde hair looked almost silver in the moonlight, framing a too perfect, narrow face and cascading down her back. The tips of pointed ears showed slightly through the gleaming mane. Featureless glowing golden eyes looked dispassionately down at them. She wore a finely wrought silver crown, showing that she was royalty of her kind.

Dean hated her on sight. He had to stop himself from throwing himself at her and ripping her throat out with his bare hands, and had no idea why his response was so violent. Yes, this creature was clearly supernatural, and just as clearly a danger to everyone around her, but he had never experienced this reaction. He rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder, prepared to push his younger brother to the ground if the creatures made a threatening move.

The being seemed able to read Dean’s emotions, and appeared amused by them. With a flick of a slender hand, she said, “Restrain the Vessel of The Adversary.”

Two of her followers dismounted and prowled towards Dean. Before they were even half way there, Sam was suddenly out from under Dean’s hand, between Dean and the approaching creatures, and before anything could react, had pulled his knife and stabbed the lead hunter in the shoulder.

The hunter screamed as the knife slid far too easily through his shoulder. His companion seized Sam’s arm, and more creatures flung themselves off their horses and mobbed the Winchesters. Even with Dean joining in the fray, they were soon brought down by sheer numbers.

The queen stayed on her horse the entire time. As Dean glared up at her, she still seemed more amused than irritated. With a slight tap of a riding crop on the flanks of her mount, she rode towards the brothers.

It was only then Dean realized that while all the riders that had dismounted were supernatural creatures, not all the riders were inhuman. Behind the queen were six humans, five men and one woman. All were clothed like the riders, but showed no reaction to their surroundings, almost appearing to be melded with their horses rather than riding them.

His attention was brought back to the queen when she tilted his head up with her riding crop, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

After a moment she turned her horse so she could do the same to Sam. Dean struggled, trying to get to her, but her creatures were too strong. 

“`Tis a pity that we are bound by The Father to only take one,” she said, after finally releasing Sam. “Either of you would be a grand prize for The Father and a slap in the face for The Adversary. However, even I, First of the Sidhe, cannot break the Contract of the Tithe. One may be taken, but never two.”

Before either brother could struggle, the Queen of the Sidhe (where had Dean heard that name before?) wheeled her steed about, fitted an arrow to her bow, and fired it into Dean’s leg.

Underneath Sam’s yell, Dean swore he could hear Lucifer’s laughter chasing him into oblivion.


	4. Chasing Shadows

_Cold…So cold…Sammy? Can’t…think…_

* * *

Zoe jerked awake at the sound of her cell phone. Irritably, she picked it up and snapped, “What?”

“Doctor Hart?” the voice was unfamiliar, a soft, raspy tenor that might have belonged to either an older man or a habitual alcoholic or smoker. “This is Aquila Piers,” he paused before adding, “The cemetery groundskeeper. There’s a- a situation.”

“What type of situation?” Zoe asked, putting her phone on speaker so she could get dressed.

If anything, Piers sounded even more nervous after she spoke, “There’s a-an unconscious man here. He-he’s not respondin’ to anythin’. Doesn’t smell o’drinkin’, neither.”

“What have you tried?” Zoe hoped that Piers could understand her through her shirt.

“Ev’rythin’ Ah could think of. Even slapped him hard enough to leave’a mark. He’s alive, no marks on him other’n a few scratches, breathin’ and heartbeat fine, but nothin’s a’gettin’ him up.”

“How does his temperature feel?” Zoe asked, snatching the first skirt that came to hand. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere important or wouldn’t be able to come back and dress properly.

There was a brief shuffling sound and a grunt, before Piers answered, “Feels a mite clammy, but no fever.”

That let out encephalitis. While ordinarily Zoe would be eager for an interesting or rare illness, this time she hoped it was something obvious and quickly fixed. Frowning, she asked Piers one last question, “Did you check his pulse on both sides of his body?”

“…No? Should Ah have?”

“Yes. If it’s an aneurism or a heart attack, one side’s pulse may be different. Weaker, and slower.” Zoe did her best to explain in terms that the groundskeeper would understand.

“Anythin’ else Ah should do while Ah’m down here?” Piers didn’t seem to have moved since he’d checked for fever.

“No, if it isn’t something that obvious there won’t be any more easy checks,” She’d have to stop by the office for a blood glucose meter and some glucagon. Assuming that Piers’s second check eliminated the two options she’d mentioned to him.

“The same as t’other side,” Piers’s voice broke through Zoe’s analysis.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay with him until then.” Hopefully Lavon would be up, because she didn’t want to wake him…or deal with Lemon if the other woman was up and Lavon wasn’t.

* * *

Lavon hadn’t expected to see the old Impala at the cemetery. He wasn’t certain what hunted during the cold months on the nights of the full moon, but he suspected that the man collapsed near the car was a victim of it.

Zoe was in control of the scene.

She knelt by the man’s side, pulling out some medical device. A blood testing kit, he quickly recognized. It didn’t take long to use it, but the reading didn’t please her, “Blood sugar’s 95.”

Rocking back on her heels, she glared at her patient. Eyes scanning him, she focused on a bloody tear in the thigh of the man’s jeans. Pulling aside the cloth, her scowl deepened, “This is old. Why the hell is he wearing the unwashed jeans that he got hit with? And what’s this dust?”

Aquila almost levitated away from the unconscious man when dust was mentioned, but he didn’t answer the question. Or Zoe’s sharp, “What the hell’s wrong?”

Rolling her eyes after she got no response, she palpitated the bruised area. “There’s something still in here.”

* * *

_The cold shifted slightly._

_It felt slightly lighter._

_Maybe light enough for him to_ wake up.

* * *

The man groaned, shifting slightly under Zoe’s hand, “Don’t…transport.”

She paused, “I’m not certain you’re legally capable of making that decision.”

“Don’t care. Don’t transport,” The man seemed determined, “They wouldn’t believe…the treatment anyway.”

“What makes you think _I’ll_ believe the supposed treatment,” Zoe asked.

“Pride. And the fact that I-” a gasp interrupted, “Have no insurance, so will likely end up dead anyway. Unless someone- intervenes.”

He smiled, applying whatever charm a nearly unconscious man could, “It’ll give you something up on the city doctors.”

Zoe frowned. Even as this mystery man was lapsing into unconsciousness, she still felt the stirrings of something. Not lust, but pride as the man had stated. She wanted to discover, and come up with a treatment for, some new disease.

Closing her eyes, Zoe stated, “Three days. I’ll give you three days to come around before you go to Mobile.” She glared at Lavon and Piers, daring them to say something against the idea.

Piers shook his head while Lavon looked like he was about to say something against the idea, but he only said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

So did Zoe, but she would never admit that, even to someone she liked as much as Lavon.

As she lifted her hand, the man stiffened, twitching like someone having a seizure, before gasping, “Sam…my.”

She managed to catch his head as the seizure became more violent before the stranger lapsed into complete unconsciousness.


	5. Child of Innocence

“Thank you for bringin’ Dee-Lee Ann’s papers over Mr. Mausser. Ah’m sorry for your loss,” Lemon knew she should have given her regards first, but she wasn’t in the best mental state to think of the proper order of polite statements.

Alexander Mausser didn’t look so much distraught as numb. Brushing over-long hair from his eyes, he mumbled, “Dee-Lee Ann would’ve wanted it.”

Lemon doubted that but she was polite enough to leave Alexander his illusions, especially knowing that the man really believed what he had said. Dee-Lee Ann would have preferred to give the responsibility to _any_ of the other girls, if only so the designate could make a complete hash of things.

Lemon missed her, and the funeral hadn’t even been held yet.

It would have to be closed casket, another thing that would have annoyed Dee-Lee Ann. She would have wanted one last opportunity to display her wealth and taste, even if she wasn’t present in anything except body.

Mr. Mausser shifted from foot to foot before saying, “I’ve got to go. Arrangements…plans…people…” his voice trailed off as he made hand motions as vague as his statements.

“Ah’ll see you at church,” Lemon said, watching Alexander leave with a faint sense of relief from both parties. While Dee-Lee Ann had inspired very strong emotions in the townsfolk, her husband was so flat it was impossible to feel much of anything regarding him, except perhaps faint pity.

After Alexander slipped off, Lemon gazed apathetically at the pile of documentation.

Her grey mood shattered when one stack trembled, looking like some invisible _thing_ was trying its best to get something out of the middle of the pile without upsetting the whole thing. As Lemon watched with terrified eyes, an old journal was tugged out of the pile and opened to the first page. 

With a shaking hand and unsteady feet, Lemon approached the journal and reached out to lightly brush the open cover with her fingertips before doing the same to the paper page. Both were of high quality and probably hand-bound.

Lemon’s eyes were drawn to the date and, almost without conscious thought, she sat down and was drawn into the author’s views of her world.

_May 1, 1924_

_Mater gave me this journal today and warned me that as I am now a woman, I have a duty to keep my emotions under control. Therefore, I should confine any unseemly emotional displays to its pages. This was the only acknowledgement of my birthday I received, and the only present I was given._

_If silent suffering is a woman’s duty, I hate it already. Why couldn’t I have been a boy like Julian? He, at least, can get an education and further the family fortunes some other way._

_Calanthe may happy with that, but I can’t resign myself to a life of duty without the pleasure of expression. Happy might not be the right word, though. If little sister is half as vapid as she acts, she should go on the stage, or better yet, to Hollywood._

_Another duty I know I will hate is marriage. Pater has not yet found a husband for me, but it is only a matter of time until he does. My duty to the family honor is to wed well so we do not become destitute. Appearances must be maintained, even as we see the last of the Great Southern Families slip away._

_We only exist in the Old South now, anyway. Perhaps we never existed, except in the memories of those who lost. Even if we did exist at one time, that time has passed, and the remnants should be permitted to fade gracefully, for there shall never be a time when the South as it is remembered will be renewed._

_Which is as it should be._

_As for marriage, I already know the four men under consideration, and to marry any of them is to further tarnish the thought of what might have been._

_Robert Laney is old and has already buried four wives._

_Adolphus Mausser is just as old and has never had a wife, but is said to be overly attached to his butler._

_Ylli Baris just got off the boat, and while he’s rich, his accent is so thick I never understand him, he always smells like a goat and sour wine, and he’s never come to church. Not once. I think he’s may even be a Jew, although if I asked Mater or Pater they never would admit to knowing and I would be punished for asking improper questions._

_The knowledge that Pater is considering him only demonstrates how far realities have fallen from the ideal. How desperate our family circumstances must be._

_Which leaves only Marius Bellerose as the best of a shabby lot. He would be acceptable although he’s from a Catholic New Orleans family, he’s a good Methodist now and is only six years older than me, with a knack for making money. He already has one of the richest plantations in Bluebell. His family is French, but they are also one of the Old Families in Louisiana. And they are wealthy enough that their children are similarly blessed with the beginnings of a fortune should they decide to leave the family plantation. Even Protestants like Marius._

_Perhaps we could have a good life._

_I hope we will have a good life._

Lemon barely noticed when the unseen hand began flipping pages over, passing over the everyday occurrences of a young southern belle, one of the last of her time, to an as yet unknown destination. 

The pages stopped turning and a slight indention appeared beside another date. Lemon read on. 

_May 13, 1924_

_Pater has made his decision. Our financial situation must be far worse than even Mother knew, for he made this decision with what he would consider unseemly haste in any other circumstance._

_I will marry Marius Bellerose the first week of October._

_Marius has hired one of the local negro families as servants. Our current staff is leaving tomorrow because our family has lost the ability to pay them, a fact that Pater has made clear to us._

_He has also made clear that we are not to discuss anything important around this new family because they are likely to be reporting on our situation to the Bellerose family. These 'spies' arrive next week._

_I wonder why Pater assumes they are spies. What secrets do we have that is worth placing spies in our household?_

_Perhaps the financial situation is wearing on Pater more than I thought._

Lemon could almost convince herself that she could see the outline of the hand that turned the pages before they stopped turning and indicated a new entry. 

_May 20, 1924_

_I hope I can continue to write uninterrupted. I need space to contemplate what I dare not anywhere else._

_If Marius had known how Thea would affect me he would never have hired the Williams family. And Pater would never have accepted their hiring, even with the ever-present need to keep up appearances._

_I fear that appearances will suffer far more than they would had we never replaced the servants._

_I am attracted to Thea. I already feel more passion towards her than I do my fiancée. A negro servant woman arouses my interest more than good, wholesome, white Marius._

_I do not wish to press my suit, even were it seemly to do so. Thea is a servant. I would not take advantage of my position. I have always despised those who have done so._

_I will be strong._

The now unmistakably visible, transparent hand turned the pages again. This time, Lemon’s guide halted its page turning at a sketch. She examined the picture. 

The subject was a young woman, no older than eighteen. From the careful shading of the pencil, she was a light-skinned black woman. While too worn and tired for conventional beauty, even at her young age, the subject was still a striking woman. 

Behind Lemon another woman whispered, “Thea.” Lemon spun around, tipping over the chair as she did. 

Behind her was a woman, younger than Lemon, perhaps younger than the woman in the picture. She was dressed in early twentieth century garb fitting for a proper woman, if a bit out of fashion for the 1920s. Her light brown hair was an equally proper length and her face was tastefully made up. She wasn’t a beauty, her frame was too solid and her facial features too strong for that. 

In fact, her face was similar to Brick’s and the other men of the Breeland family. 

In contrast to the propriety of her clothes and neatness of her make-up, her hair was unbound and uncoiffed. It looked like she had just walked in from a windstorm. 

The woman gave her a slight smile and said, “Hello, Lemon.” 

Lemon tried to ask ‘Who are you’, but couldn’t quite manage to force the question out. She knew what the woman was, and she didn’t know how to ask the ghost’s name. 

The woman inclined her head briefly before answering the unspoken question, “I am your Aunt Hazel. You have been reading my journal. Now, please right the chair and sit. We have much to discuss.” 

Without thinking about it, Lemon did as the ghost asked. Even though she knew she should be disconcerted, even frightened, she couldn’t rouse the emotional intensity to even resist the spirit’s sweet commands. 


	6. Aperҫu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. Hopefully, things should pick up now.

Zoe glared at the man lying on the exam table.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” she snarled at the unconscious form, “You’re going to Mobile in three days, but why was I stupid enough to let you talk me into those three days? I don’t have the facilities to deal with this.”

He didn’t say anything as he was still _unconscious_. The same as he’d been for over an hour.

Zoe frowned as she realized the man’s eyes (and she was going to have to list him as ‘John Doe’ because he had no documentation on him) were moving beneath the lids.

If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect this was REM sleep.

But that was impossible.

A grand mal seizure might cause unconsciousness, but the patient didn’t lapse into full REM sleep.

Nor did a person with seizures have unlabored breathing, even if the pattern was currently indicative of stress. The stress appeared to be inconsistently experienced, rather than consistent, as would have occurred with a normal seizure.

It almost seemed as though the John Doe was having a nightmare.

And a seizure sufferer didn’t wake fully coherent, if in pain. And the pain that the John Doe was experiencing appeared to be associated with whatever was wrong with his leg, not strained vitals, head pains, or generalized nervous system firing.

“Damn you,” Zoe muttered.

In five seconds of acquaintance, this stranger had recognized how to motivate her to follow his prescribed course of action.

Zoe hated being a pawn in someone else’s game.

And she’d felt like that since she’d lost the position she had banked on in New York.

“ _Damn_ you,” Zoe muttered again; this time the pronoun was applicable to any number of people. Her mother, the man she’d thought was her biological father her entire life, Harley Wilkes, Brick Breeland, the John Doe…

Lemon Breeland…

Zoe hadn’t dated much in New York. She’d been too focused on her plans and studies. And when she had dated, it had been with men, mostly because it was simpler than trying to figure out how to present the image she needed the rest of the world see and date a woman.

But Lemon…

Zoe would prefer to not have one of the most influential families in this town as her enemy. And beyond such purely mercenary considerations was an ever growing suspicion that she and Lemon had more in common than either of them would admit.

For one, the whispers of certain actions of Lemon’s had reached even Zoe Hart, misfit doctor. From those scraps of information, Zoe had come to the surprising conclusion that Lemon had only recently taken to playing to the crowd, much as Zoe herself had for her entire life, and with about as much pleasure.

For another…there was Lavon. As much as Zoe liked Wade, she had nothing in common with him. Lavon sometimes seemed a more…gentrified version of Wade. He fit between George Tucker and Wade, more genuine seeming than the lawyer, but more a part of Zoe’s circles than the…well, than Wade.

And the rumor mill still echoed with whispers of a scandalous romance. A romance between old family Lemon Breeland and black outsider Lavon Hayes.

Which, among other, less flattering comparisons, was only further confirmation that Lemon Breeland and Zoe Hart had more in common than either was likely to admit, except under torture.

Similar enough to be attracted to the same men.

Possibly even similar enough to be attracted to each other.

Of course, this attraction could be evidence of insanity. Further evidence, if her mother was correct in her assertion that Zoe’s move to Bluebell was brought about by a stress induced mental break.

Zoe wasn’t certain which answer she preferred, so she returned her attention to the slightly less annoying question of the John Doe and his inexplicable condition.

She cautiously palpitated the bruised area where she had felt the hard object before.

It was still there; and beneath her hand she felt the John Doe shift as a prelude to waking once again.

* * *

_Dad was gone again, and Dean had no idea when he’d be back. The knowledge that, under normal circumstances, a seven-year-old boy shouldn’t be left alone to watch his baby brother was already beginning to recede._

_This was simply how life was. Dad went out to Hunt Things like the creature that had killed Mom, and Dean stayed behind with Sammy._

_Dad had taught Dean appropriate gun safety and how to use a gun, and always left plenty of ammunition, both ‘special’ and ordinary. He was certain that Dean could handle anything that came. Dean wished_ he _could be so certain._

_No matter how hard he prepared and trained, most of the Things were quicker than Dean could dream of being._

_From where he was lying on the bed, Sammy gurgled and babbled something._

_With a smile, Dean went over to the bed and whispered, “Hi, Sammy.”_

_Sammy babbled again._

_To Dean’s surprise, he wasn’t simply babbling, but attempting to say something, “D-d-d,” Sammy said._

_“You’re trying to say something!” Dean exclaimed. “What are you trying to say? Daddy?” Dean didn’t admit for a long time that he had been jealous at the idea._

_“D-d-d,” Sammy said once more, managing to give the impression that he was glaring at the idea he was trying to say ‘Daddy’._

_Smiling slightly, Dean tried to think of other words._

_But before Dean could suggest another word, Sammy screwed his face up and blurted out, “Dee!”_

_As he did, he flung one arm out and nearly socked Dean in the eye, leaving no doubt who he was talking about._

* * *

Dean was jarred out of this happy memory by a blast of pain. The pretty doctor’s prodding the wound left by the elfshot was getting more painful every time, not less. He suspected it might be getting infected, in addition to leaching some form of poison into his system.

Hopefully he wouldn’t get gangrene.

That would be about the only thing that would make this mess perfect. Well, that or the pretty doctor turning out to be a Leviathan.

Dean doubted that she was a Leviathan, though.

If she had been, he’d have woken up to a Reaper. Leviathans really didn’t seem to believe in delayed gratification.

“I thought that would get you conscious,” the doctor sounded annoyed.

Before Dean could say anything she fired a sharp statement at him, “You know what’s going on.”

Okay, so that was pretty vague and hadn’t exactly been a question, but Dean still nodded a reply after an infinite moment of first trying to figure out what the doctor was and wasn’t asking about, and then deciding how much he could tell her about the situation, and finally determining what he could tell her that she would believe.

It was very hard, as the elfshot was turning his brain into tapioca pudding. Which was a thought that brought all kinds of disgusting images with it.

Yanking his thoughts back on track, Dean did his best to force the necessary words out, “Can’t tell- X-ray- leg.”

Even as Dean caught the doctor’s frustration, the elfshot forced him back into unconsciousness.

And into memories…

* * *

_It was five hours after they left Hotel Creepy, and Dean was getting ready to pull over for the night when he realized that Sam hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten in the Impala. The only sounds in the Impala were those of Black Sabbath pounding through the speakers._

_Which, given that Sam had been distressed enough to get stinkin’ drunk last night and make Dean swear to kill him if he went evil, emotion enough to launch a hundred chick flicks, was so very not-Sam that it was disturbing._

_Glancing over at Sam, he saw the same shuttered look that had been on his brother’s face since they’d found Rose’s body._

_That look terrified him._

_He was losing his Sammy again, and had no more idea how to prevent it this time than he had when Sam had announced his scholarship and intent to go to Stanford._

_Looking back over at Sam, Dean knew he was lying to himself about not knowing the solution._

_He knew what the only solution was... Biting the bullet and talking about his feelings and their relationship._

_Yecch._

_It was another half-hour of silence from Sam before Dean found an exit, and Dean was even more worried. He’d tried several times to get something, anything, out of his brother. He’d asked Sam about various monsters they’d encountered, ones he knew Sam had theories about. He’d thrown out suggestions for new hunts. He’d even played music that he knew Sam hated, just to see if he could get a reaction._

_And he’d gotten nothing._

_The neighborhood they found themselves driving into in Du Bois, Pennsylvania was a bit more upscale than Dean wanted. Even though he knew that he probably could find a cheaper place, Dean pulled into the first hotel he saw, a Hampton Inn._

_Taking care of Sam was more important than saving money. It always had been._

_Sam didn’t even appear to notice, which was yet another disturbing non-reaction. Sam might have a tendency to be a bit more spendthrift than Dean, but there was no way that Sam could possibly miss the more upscale hotel. And he should have questioned the decision to stay here._

_“I’ll get us a room,” Dean said as he opened the car door._

_There was no sign that Sam even heard._

_Fortunately, while the hotel might have been slightly more upscale than Dean had wanted, it was still low enough that Dean didn’t attract odd looks._

_Unfortunately, the hotel only had rooms with one bed at the moment._

_Dean got a room with a king, paid for one night (over a hundred dollars. If it weren’t for Sam he would never have stopped here), received the keys, muttered something resembling thanks to the clerk, and made his way back to the car._

_Sam wasn’t in it._

_He almost panicked, until he saw a shaggy head poking out from behind the Impala’s rear fender._

_Dean stalked over and demanded, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” And immediately wished that he could take those words back, because all the color drained from Sam’s face and his brother gave a shudder that looked like it was the prelude to a seizure._

_The reason wasn’t hard to find._

_Sam had_ seen _Dean have a heart attack. He just hadn’t known that Sam still felt guilt and fear over what had happened._

__But then, Sam had always had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Which was, admittedly, a good trait for a hunter to possess, as long as they had a partner to keep it under control. It helped reduce civilian casualties and allowed them and their partner to function in normal society with less trouble._ _

__The problems, however, surfaced when something happened to a civilian or their partner._ _

__“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean mumbled as he passed his brother to open the trunk._ _

__If he hadn’t been looking for any reaction, he would have missed the brief nod of acknowledgement and sad excuse for a smile that put in a brief appearance on Sam’s face before they flicked off._ _

__Tough crowd._ _

__With a grim determination Dean was careful not to let show, he reached in and shouldered the weapon’s bag and his stuff. He waited as Sam made sure his gear was secure, then closed and locked the trunk before heading towards their room._ _

__Sam trailed behind him with a passivity that Dean couldn’t recall his brother ever showing in his entire life._ _

__

* * *

Having been given marching orders by a man who looked like he’d never set foot inside an institute of higher learning, much less the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons, Zoe pushed the gurney to the probably antique x-ray machine.

At least John Doe would be immobile for the tests, at least as long as she didn’t touch his bad leg too often.

Draping one of the practice’s lead aprons over her patient’s torso, she pushed him into position.

With excruciating care, Zoe lifted the John Doe’s hurt leg the minimum distance necessary to slip the practice’s one imaging plate under it before just as carefully easing it back down. Aside from a brief grimace, the John Doe didn’t seem to register her manipulation of his leg, so Zoe counted that as a win.

After one last check to make certain everything was correctly placed, Zoe stepped back to the machine’s controls, wishing that the practice had an actual radiologist to do this kind of thing.

* * *

Although the jarring movement of his leg wasn’t enough to bring Dean back to consciousness, it was enough to cause the chain of memories to skip.

It felt like the mental equivalent of jarring a record player. The mental ‘recording’ skipped past the beginning of their talk, getting to the discovery at the issue’s heart.

* * *

_The conversation hadn’t gone well. Dean was uncomfortable with expressing any deeper emotions, and Sam was emotionally worn to the threads._

_Everything Dean said seemed to come out wrong. And even when he managed to phrase it in a way that his intent, Sam took it wrong._

_“You want to talk about feelings. You don’t want to talk about feelings. You want to discuss Dad. You don’t want to even_ think _about Dad. You want normal life. You want to hunt with me. You don’t want normal life, but you don’t want to hunt. What the fuck is it you_ want _, Sam?”_

_While the expression on Sam’s face had increased in fury as Dean snarled his series of contradictions, but when Dean reached the final question all expression fled from his face, leaving it as blank as it had been at the beginning of the evening._

_The silence stretched for an uncomfortable few seconds, before Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head briefly. He walked to the window, pushing the curtains aside and looking out across the parking lot._

_After a few moments of staring, he turned back towards Dean, throwing his face into relief._

_For a moment, even with all the negative emotions being thrown around Dean allowed himself to see that Sam had become a handsome man, finally having grown into the long limbs and large hands and feet adolescence had given his brother without granting the adult proportionality._

_Dean pushed the inappropriate emotions aside. He’d been battling with lust for Sammy ever since his brother had entered adolescence._

_“I know what I want… And I know that I can’t have it,” Sam said softly._

_Dean didn’t understand the instinct that drew him to his brother’s side. Once he was close enough to hear what Sam whispered when he assumed that Dean couldn’t hear, he was glad that he’d done so._

_Even if he didn’t quite get what Sam was talking about._

_Sam breathed, “I’ve always known I can’t have what I want. It was why I left for Stanford in the first place, why I tried to leave after Dad disappeared…”_

_Ever so carefully, Dean reached forward to rest a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, “What do you want, Sam?”_

_Unexpectedly, Sam turned around and faced Dean. He whispered, “You. I want you all to myself. No Dad, no… women, or men, for that matter. Just you and me.”_

_Sam couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like he was saying. That was all Dean could think. Sam couldn’t possibly… Dean’s eyes met Sam’s and he saw that, most improbably, Sam did mean what it sounded like._

_Almost without conscious thought, Dean found himself pulling his ridiculously tall brother down and pressing their lips together in a kiss that communicated what words couldn’t. ___

___Although Dean had begun the kiss, it was Sam who deepened it beyond a one-sided communication, adding additional layers of longing and outright lust, a lust that Dean would normally have shied away from for fear of ruining their relationship… if Sam hadn’t been managing the entire process._ _ _

___It was Sam who initiated the general bedward drift. Sam who carefully stripped first himself, taking care not to jar his still broken arm too much, and who just as carefully removed Dean’s clothing, making it sensuous, rather than clinical, and urgent without being hurried._ _ _

___And Sam who remained in charge the entire time they were having sex._ _ _

___Dean didn’t object._ _ _

___It was…surprisingly nice to have someone else in charge for once. While Dean might be the leader during hunts…outside, it was nice to surrender leadership to someone else._ _ _

____

* * *

Dean knew he was being moved again, because the memory-

_‘How could you sleep with a demon, Sam?!’_

-began-

_‘You’re a damn hypocrite, Dean!’_

-skipping.

_‘The dead should stay dead.’_

And they couldn’t-

_‘You fucking left me!’_

-remain in that-

_‘Son of a bitch!’_

-idyllic time forever.

_Fuckin' liar! You get off on it!_


	7. No One Together

It took a while for Zoe to notice that the office was colder than normal because she was concentrating on the x-rays she’d taken of the John Doe’s leg. It was harder than she’d expected to see… whatever she was supposed to be seeing.

By the time she finally noticed the chill, it was a lot colder than normal. She could see her breath crystalize in the air. Mentally swearing at whoever was _supposed_ to be maintaining the practice’s equipment, she went in search of the thermostat.

The janitor was probably a friend of Brick’s.

It got colder the closer she got to the thermostat. By the time she got there, there was _frost_ on the controls. Not the unit, the _controls_.

Once she managed to pry open the finicky door, she swore at the readout. Forty fucking degrees fucking Fahrenheit. She was surprised that the AC hadn’t turned into a solid block of ice with how much work it was doing.

Zoe decided that she’d wait for the janitor tonight and read him the riot act. Just because Brick wasn’t here was no reason to do things that could destroy the practice’s equipment.

Right now, Zoe didn’t know if Brick would be able to practice medicine again, even if he did survive.

She didn’t know how she should feel about that.

Actually, that was a lie. She knew _exactly_ how she felt about that.

The part of her that was the ruthless workplace-politician-in-training was ecstatic. Brick was out of the way and she hadn’t had to do anything that would further damage her standing in the community or otherwise destroy her reputation to do it.

The part of her that was always a doctor was concerned. Brick had been her patient, and she had a responsibility to her patients to get them back on their feet with as few lingering problems as possible.

The part of her that was always a surgeon mostly had the same concerns as the part that was a doctor had much the same concerns, save that the surgeon was concerned with the loss of face and confidence, rather than a failure of responsibility. Surgeons had to approach every procedure certain of success, no matter how long the odds might seem. It was why they had a reputation for being arrogant. Which was part of what had angered Zoe about being turned down for the position she had wanted after her residency.

It wasn’t the comment about her lack of social skills, it was the obvious double standard. Her step-father was just as arrogant and focused as she, but no one denied _him_ positions because of those traits.

And Brick was _worse_ than Zoe, but Bluebell treated him like a demigod, while despising Zoe for exhibiting the _exact same traits they praised in him_.

Which was why the last part of her was feeling nothing more than bitter satisfaction.

* * *

When Zoe got back to the John Doe, her scans were nowhere to be found.

After a painstaking search that wasted half an hour and netted her an increased blood pressure, Zoe turned around to find them on the floor.

Under the John Doe’s table. 

Wondering how the hell they’d gotten there, Zoe knelt and gathered them up.

It might have been her imagination, but Zoe could have sworn that she heard someone, another woman, whisper something into her ear as she stood up.

Not only that, but she could swear that the woman was saying, _‘watch your step, doctor… it would be a shame if something should… happen to you.’_


End file.
